


Penance

by Mackem



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pain, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A snapshot from that lost year. The Master plays with his captive.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Penance

**Author's Note:**

> A snapshot from that lost year. The Master plays with his captive.

"You know, Doctor, it's a pity your friends can't see you right now." His voice is mock-soothing, goading in nature; the tone he uses when he wants to get a rise. It always came naturally to him, especially when directing it toward his old friend. His nemesis. "Brought so low, so _pitiful_. How's about next time the two of us put on a saucy little show for them?"  
  
The Doctor _is_ low. He is slumped on his knees in front of the Master, naked and mercilessly bound. The ropes are slicing raw lines into his wrists and the knots dig into his back; a thousand aches stinging all at once. His body has been through much within the last hour, once the laser screwdriver had worked its awful magic again, restoring his relative youth. Everything feels too fresh, too new, and he cannot become accustomed to the sensations. The Master knows this, and relishes it.  
  
"They'll never see me like this." His voice is hoarse. His throat must hurt. The Master laughs in surprise and makes a show of zipping his trousers up fussily. This regeneration does so suit formal dress, and he wants to point out the difference between them to the Doctor. _His_ suit lies abandoned in his wheelchair. There is no reason for his body, in its current delectable form, to be clothed.  
  
"Oh? Predicting the future, now, are we, Doctor? But you've been right about so little up to now! What makes you think I won't show you off? You do make such a _pretty_ sight," he smirks, forcibly raising the Doctor's chin. Those thin, teasing lips are swollen; the Master is never one to be gentle, and the Doctor bruises easily. "Why would I hide you away?"  
  
"Because you don't want to share." The Doctor speaks quietly, and their eyes meet. There are years in the Doctor's deep eyes, so much to see and to know, and the Master wants to make the Doctor tell him everything. He also wants to shut the Doctor up. He feels a contradictory nature is the sign of an interesting person. He ignores the words, for now, despite knowing they are true.  
  
"Look at you, down there," he muses. "Your knees must hurt, hmm? Poor old man," he coos, and strokes the Doctor's limp hair almost tenderly, as he would stroke a skittish pet, not yet tamed. "How long have you been kneeling for me? Ooh, it must be," he theatrically checks his watch, as if a Time Lord needs clocks to mark the passage of time, "Almost an hour! It's your own fault, really," he murmurs, fixing stern eyes on the Doctor. "I look at you before me and I just can't help myself. I have to use you. Especially that gorgeous mouth of yours." He strokes his fingers lightly over the Doctor's bruised lips, covering his mouth and watching with no small satisfaction the way his eyes gaze unblinkingly up in return. The Doctor makes no move to squirm away; he even parts his lips obediently when his fingers probe at them. He smiles, and pats the Doctor's cheek. "Let's give your knees a break, hmm?"  
  
  
  
The ropes around his arms are cut, but he makes no attempt to escape. There are probably guards posted outside the room, protecting the Master from those misguided or insane enough to rebel against him face-to-face, but this makes no difference to the Doctor. He knows he cannot escape. He doubts he could walk across the room unassisted. Everywhere _aches_.  
  
The Master drags him up, their bodies pressed flush together, bare skin held against expensive cloth. His arms are a mess; The Doctor can feel blood oozing from the cuts sawn into his flesh by the ropes and has time to see bruises already blooming on his delicate wrists, dark and painful, before they are hidden by leather cuffs. The sturdy chain is threaded over a hook which is hoisted toward the cell's ceiling, pulling him after it. The Master only ties it off when he is left on tip-toes and clenching his teeth against the pain in his limbs, stretched taut and straining as he hangs from his abused wrists.  
  
Fingers clad in leather gloves roam over his exposed torso. Each bruise and blemish on his skin tells a different story, every one painful and humiliating. The most recent marks are two small, round spots on his stomach, the reddened skin testament to the pain a taser could cause. The voltage had been increased until he'd pleaded for an end, voice cracking as his muscles clenched fitfully. That had been a week ago; the experience must have sated the Master's lust exceptionally well, as since then the Doctor had been deposited back into his tent, as if he were a toy whose batteries had run down.  
  
The painful marks are pressed curiously as the fingers stroke possessively down his chest to his stomach, finally resting at his hipbones when the Master smirks at his pained gasp. He is unsurprised when they begin to drum a familiar rhythm onto his skin, though he wonders if the Master is even aware of what he is doing. "Comfy?" The fingers grip painfully when the Doctor remains silent, anger flaring at the disobedience even as his voice remains composed. "I asked you a question, Doctor. Are you comfortable?"  
  
"Not…exactly feeling at home," he manages, producing an amused chuckle.  
  
"Good. I love you like this," the Master murmurs. He begins to circle the Doctor, stalking around him, as if closing in on a prey. But he is already caught, he knows, well tangled in this trap, even if he had walked willingly inside – and how he had depended on it closing around him. It does not make how vulnerable he feels as the Master paces around him any less real. Exhausted, his eyes close and his head hangs as the Master traces the lines of trembling muscles.  
  
  
  
The Master cannot resist for long before letting his fingers travel to the Doctor's slim backside, firmly kneading the bruised, reddened flesh. He has already devoted much attention here, tying the Doctor into a supplicant position and striking again and again until his whines became screams. The Master loves how vocal this regeneration is. He smiles in satisfaction at the strangled whimper his touch brings.  
  
"Poor Doctor," he murmurs. His fingers still, and his arms wrap around the Doctor's slender body as he presses himself close. He rests his head against a straining shoulder and closes his eyes, breathing in the mingled scent of sweat and blood and skin against the Doctor's throat. It intoxicates him, as the Doctor's scent always does, and sends a familiar sharp stab of lust through his gut. His prick is already stiffening. "I'd pity you, if I didn't know how much you want this." The Doctor gives no reply but the Master hears the double pulse of his hearts speed suddenly. He smiles, pleased with the sound. So like the drumming that echoes in his head, but…soothing, and nowadays, unique. A Time Lord heartbeat. Surrounded by humans, he relishes things only the Doctor can provide. He knows the Doctor feels the same way, even as he is reduced to the Master's personal plaything, and this produces a lazy smile. "Aw, did you think I hadn't noticed? You need me to do this for you, Doctor. I _know_ this is your penance. Tell me," he whispers, lips against his throat, "How much punishment is necessary to repent for the destruction of two mighty races?"  
  
"Stop it," the Doctor whispers in response. His eyes squeeze shut and he sounds sick, and desperate. "Please. Just...stop it."  
  
"How much?" The Master repeats immediately. He opens hard eyes and directs the Doctor's chin down, those hazel eyes opening reluctantly. "How much torture do you need until you've atoned for Gallifrey?" he demands. "How much to absolve you of your sins, Doctor?" The Doctor's throat works soundlessly and the Master begins to drum at his collarbone.  
  
"I…don't know," he manages, and the Master watches expectantly until the first sob breaks loose and his eyes close against the tears.


End file.
